Chapter 19 Luke
NINETEEN
LUKE
Micah practically shoves me into the backseat of the Uber like I’m some drunk asshole who might bolt into traffic if left unsupervised.
Which is honestly fair.
Because I might.
The door slams, and the car pulls away from the curb, and all I can do is stare out the window, panic crawling up my spine like ivy. My heart won’t stop jackhammering. My mouth tastes like tequila and bad decisions.
I feel sick.
Not hangover sick.
Oh-my-god-I-just-sent-that-message sick.
“I’m going to die,” I mutter.
Micah hums from the seat next to me, entirely too calm for someone who witnessed a full social and emotional meltdown thirty seconds ago. “If you puke, aim out the window. Or at least into your shirt.”
“I’m serious,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I just nuked my entire life. With a thumb. A thumb, Micah. Why didn’t you stop me?!”
He snorts. “Taking your phone away would’ve been like trying to wrestle a pissed-off badger in glitter eyeliner. I enjoy living, thanks.”
I groan louder, slumping sideways so my head hits the window. “He’s gonna think I’m insane. He’s gonna show Coach Harris. I’m going to get benched before the season starts. Or kicked off the team for inappropriate messaging. Or hexed.”
“Okay, first of all,” Micah says, voice way too soothing for the sheer emotional chaos in my chest, “none of those things is remotely possible. Especially not the hexing, he’s not a witch. Also, it wasn’t that bad. It was kind of…” He pauses. “Heartfelt.”
“Kill me.”
“No thanks, you bring me joy.”
I groan again, dragging my phone out to make sure Silas hasn’t replied. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll glitch. Maybe the servers will crash and erase all memory of me ever typing—My screen lights up.
WhiskeyAndInk: I'm not going to ignore that message. And we will talk about it when you're sober.
I freeze.
Micah glances over. “What? What’d he say?”
I show him the screen.
Micah reads it. Then exhales. “Shit.”
“Exactly.”
My stomach flips, nausea tightening like a fist. I’m not sure if I want to cry or scream or jump out of the car and vanish into the void.
Because he’s not going to pretend I didn’t send it. And now we’re going to talk about it. Sober. With words.
This is my nightmare.
I groan and slide down in the seat until I’m practically folded in half.
Micah pats my leg like I’m a wounded puppy. “Buckle up, princess. You might actually have to use your feelings soon.”
I hate it here.
Who the fuck schedules practice on a Saturday morning?
Apparently Silas Gray does. Which honestly just proves he’s a sadist.
The sun is personal. I’m convinced it has beef with me.
It’s not just bright—it’s judging me. Like it knows I still smell like tequila, club smoke, and last night’s mistakes.
Which would be great if I hadn’t drank so much.
I can't remember how I even made it home or if Micah is alive, until I see him and Colton running laps when I get to practice.
I shuffle toward the field, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses shielding me from the worst of the glare.
Ty tried to get me up with a slice of cold pizza and a threat, but all I remember is flipping him off and dragging myself into these sweatpants like they were going to carry me through the gates of hell.
Spoiler: They didn’t.
I’m ten minutes late. Which, under normal circumstances, would be cause for a dramatic entrance. But not today.
Not after the shit I sent last night. Why hasn’t anyone invented a time machine yet? And if they have, why not share it with me, so I can stop myself from doing stupid shit I regret in the morning.
Silas is already standing at midfield, arms crossed, sunglasses on, and staring at me like I just spat on his playbook.
Awesome.
“Nice of you to show up,” he says, voice cool as ice.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I mutter, trying not to wince as my stomach rolls. “Saturday morning practices should be illegal.”
“Water. Three laps. Then you can join,” he says without looking at me again.
Cool, cool, cool. I bite back something sarcastic and jog off.
The laps are torture. My head is pounding. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. Every step is a reminder that I’m not twenty-one anymore (I am, but just barely) and maybe I shouldn’t have tried to outdrink Micah.
By the time I finish, I’m wheezing like a chain-smoking senior citizen. Silas is waiting near the sideline, still unreadable and too composed.
He doesn’t say anything—just tips his head toward the locker room.
Shit.
I follow him off the field, ignoring the way Colton and Will eye me as I pass. Probably wondering what level of dumb assery I’ve pulled now.
The office door shuts behind us with a soft click, but it sounds louder than a gunshot in my ears.
He doesn’t speak. Just pulls out his phone. Taps once. Turns the screen toward me.
My message. The one I’d hoped would vanish into the night like a ghost.
I swallow hard, lips dry.
“You sent it,” he says. “I read it. Now what?”
I stare at the screen.
You know what the worst part of this whole thing is? It’s not you. It’s me. It’s always me…
I close my eyes, jaw tight. “I was drunk.”
Silas doesn’t flinch. “You were honest.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.”
“Tough.”
My eyes snap open. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to bare your soul at 2 a.m. through a hookup app and then act like I imagined it,” he says, voice low and steady. “You don’t get to drop that and then pretend we’re just coach and player again.”
I want to scream. Or punch something. Or curl up under a blanket and pretend this isn’t happening.
“This was supposed to be a one-night stand,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want this to be serious. I can’t—”
He steps closer.
“You are serious to me,” he says. “Even when you’re being a sarcastic pain in the ass. Even when you run from me.”
I blink, throat thick.
Silas exhales through his nose and steps back, giving me space. “Look. I’m not asking for everything today. I just want you to stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”
Silence wraps around us again.
I nod. Once. Barely. Because I do feel it. That stupid, awful, wonderful pull.
“I should apologize for fucking it all up in advance,” I say. The words come out too fast, too raw. And I hate how true they feel—as if I’m bracing for the fall before we’ve even started climbing.
Silas doesn’t look away. He watches me as though he’s trying to peel back every shield I’ve ever built and see what’s underneath.
“You haven’t yet,” he says.
“Give me time.” I flash a smile, instinctive and crooked, that thing I do when I feel too much and don’t know where to put it. But he doesn’t take the bait. He never does, not really. Not when it counts.
“Luke.” His voice is low. Gentle. “Don’t flirt this away.”
I blink, momentarily thrown.
“I wasn’t—”
He raises a brow. Just one. Just enough.
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s like muscle memory. You get close, I get weird.”
“You’re not weird,” he says quietly. “You’re scared. There’s a difference.”
That silences me. Not because I disagree—but because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right. The space between us feels thick. Heavy with things I don’t have the courage to say.
After a beat, he clears his throat. “We still need to talk. After practice.”
I nod. Slowly. “Okay.”
“My place,” he adds, voice firm but not unkind. “Not here. Not on the field. Somewhere without a whistle between us.”
“Wow,” I say, trying to recover with a smirk. “Your private sanctuary, again. What will the neighbors think?”
“Probably that I’m losing sleep over a mouthy running back who doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble.”
“I prefer hermoso desastre, thank you very much.” The Spanish feels different on my tongue, but he’s said those words to me enough that I’m pretty sure my inflection is correct.
He almost smiles. Almost.
“You can come over after you’ve showered and eaten,” he says, already turning to open the door. “And if you show up still smelling like tequila, I’m benching you again.”
“Harsh,” I mutter.
“You’ll survive.”
As he walks out, the door swinging closed behind him, I press my hand to the edge of the desk—right where he braced himself the last time I was on my knees.
And I just stand there for a second, heartbeat loud in my ears.
We still need to talk.
Yeah. We really, really do. And for once, I think I’m ready.